


And You Spin My Head Right 'Round

by JezebelGoldstone



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (homophobia from an OC though not any of our faves), (kinda), Angst, Bits is best, Bromance, Bromance to Romance, Consent Issues, Dark, Dubious Morality, Enthusiastic Consent, Fantasizing, Friendship, Haus family, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Possessive!Holster, Possessiveness, Romance, Wall Sex, but shhh no one tell him, declarations, epic bros, handjobs, holster's in love, mild homophobia, people are not objects, public sex kink, public sex kink in theory if not in fact, ransom is the best, yet more possessiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 14:25:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8986531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JezebelGoldstone/pseuds/JezebelGoldstone
Summary: Life the next day carries on pretty much as usual. Holster doesn't see Ransom in person until afternoon since they both have class, but they text from the moment they wake up so he doesn't really notice his absence. Or, well. Doesn't resent his absence, anyway. What kind of bro would he be if he resented Ransom for spending the night with his girlfriend? His girlfriend whom he likes a lot?A terrible bro, that's what kind. And Holster makes it a goal in life to be an excellent bro. So he doesn't mind that Ransom was gone all night. Not one bit.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tronnie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tronnie/gifts).



> I'm eternally grateful I was alone when I realized that my giftee was none other than Tronnie, who is for realsies easily one of the best artists in the fandom. I mean. The noises I made, you guys. Totally uncool.
> 
> Also: this was supposed to be silly, lighthearted, and funny?
> 
> Haha. Hahahahahahahaa. ABOUT THAT---

* * *

  
Why does my heart cry  
Feelings I can't fight  
- _El Tango de Roxanne_ , Moulin Rouge  
  
**Granny Weatherwax:** Sin, young man, is when you treat people like things. Including yourself. That's what sin is.  
**Mightily Oats:** It's a lot more complicated than that---  
**Granny Weatherwax:** No. It ain't. When people say things are a lot more complicated than that, they means they're getting worried that they won't like the truth. People as things, that's where it starts.  
- _Carpe Jugulum_ , Sir Terry Pratchett

 

* * *

 

 

The thing is, it all starts out terrible enough to char the soul, and ends in a really good place. And Holster decides that when you come right down to it, it's all Coach Hall's fault. Coach Murray doesn't count--- it's not like he could stop all the planes in Florida being grounded for 72 hours due to weather, so he's excused--- but Coach Hall definitely could have  _not_ eaten manky three-week-old quiche and given himself food poisoning. Holster's pretty sure Bitty's going to try and adopt Coach Hall now, too, and won't that be fun to watch.  
  
So, upside: diminutive Georgian baker attempting forcible adoption of hard-assed, middle-aged hockey coach. Downside: the replacement coach they get for the two practices Hall and Murray are absent for is a complete dickhead.  
  
Well, truthfully 'complete dickhead' doesn't begin to cover it, but even Shitty can't come up with anything better right off the bat.  
  
"See, this is your problem, bro. You use all the common swear words as terms of endearment, and then you have nothing left for when someone is an actual motherfucking piece of shit," Ransom says to Shitty, and this is why he's Holster's best friend.  
  
The dumbass fuckwit backup coach decides to make the team scrimmage, which is fine, but then he puts Ransom and Holster on opposing teams, which today is decidedly not. The two of them spend a while on the ice just shouting insults back and forth, and all the while Backup Coach thinks they're insulting each other and doesn't realize they're trying to find some combo of words vile enough to describe _him_.  
  
And then.  
  
And. Then.  
  
Once practice is over and they're in the locker room, Backup Coach says "he knows what they've got to work with now, boys, and he's found room for improvement." Then he spends ten minutes going on about how hockey is a man's sport, the NHL hasn't integrated for a good reason, no amount of testosterone is enough to make up for being a pansy-assed cissy, and thinking anything else will hurt their game in the end. He sums up by telling everyone to think on what he's said and make changes accordingly.  
  
And then. He crosses his arms. And _glares at Bitty_.  
  
Then he walks out.  
  
Holster's pretty sure he's never been this angry.  
  
He's so furious it takes him a second to realize he's just standing there with his mouth open. Bitty's sitting on his locker with his head down, trying to make himself small. Holster sees red.  
  
Holster and Ransom and Jack and Shitty shuck their gear and can't speak. Bitty doesn't move. When Ransom's done tying his shoes he goes and grabs their sticks. Jack disappears into the supplies room, presumably to grab the two baseball bats they keep back there for whatever reason. Holster steps onto the seat of his locker and reaches over the top, almost to the back wall, and pulls down his knife. Shitty tucks his phone into his pocket, then ties back his hair with all the gravitas of Mal Reynolds about to walk into the jaws of the Alliance.  
  
Bitty hasn't moved, and doesn't until Jack comes back with the bats. He flinches away. Jack sees.  
  
Holster's never honestly thought Jack capable of murder, but.  
  
Apparently Shitty sees the same thing, because he hops up onto the locker seats and puts his hands on his hips.  
  
"Gentlemen," he says. "Loath as I am to admit it, my lawerying skills have not yet leveled up to keeping murderers out of jail. For this reason, there will be no absolutely no harm to anyone's physical person whatsoever, no matter how deserved it is. Destruction of property is another matter. At minimum cars and mailboxes are fair game. Did anyone bring a ski mask?"  
  
Jack raises his hand. No one chirps him. Bitty's looking at them with wide, confused eyes.  
  
"Great. Lardo has a few more. She'll text me the address and meet us there. Let's head out."  
  
The three of them nod. Ransom passes Holster his stick; Jack swings both bats up on to his shoulders.  
  
"What?" Bitty squeaks.  
  
"It'll be okay, Bits," Jack says. He's looking at the far wall, but Holster suddenly feels like he's intruding on something private. Ransom catches his eye and gives him a look, and Holster nods, because yeah, he doesn't think Jack's ever called Bitty anything other than 'Bittle' before either.  
  
"Oh _hay-ull_ no," Bitty says.  
  
Fifteen minutes later Bitty's managed to talk them out of violence, but only just. Jack doesn't say anything. But when Bitty finally convinces them to just leave it Jack walks out without looking at anyone. He puts the bats down first, though. When he comes back to the Haus late that night his knuckles are all bruised to hell, but Bitty drags him into the kitchen to take care of them and Holster hears them talking quietly. When they come out they're both a lot more relaxed than they were before.  
  
Without a word Jack slumps down into his usual chair and the four of them (Ransom leaning on Holster's shoulder on the couch, Shitty with his ass on the back and his feet on the seat) watch Bitty go upstairs, tapping away at his phone. Holster doesn't have to look at his own when it chimes with a notification a few seconds later to know that Bitty just tweeted something that was sad without being hateful and sweet without meaning to be.  
  
The four of them trade glances.  
  
After a second Ransom says, "Fuck with his head?"  
  
"Fuck with his head." Holster nods.  
  
Jack and Shitty chorus their agreement. It only takes another half an hour to formulate a plan, but when he goes to sleep that night Holster's not nearly as angry as he could have been.

* * *

  
  
The next practice, Holster and Ransom? So homo, bro. Such gay. Very sexing.  
  
They don't change much of their actual behavior--- not the way they speak or walk or anything--- because suddenly acting super camp would be too obvious. But they  _do_ make like they've been going out this whole time, and they keep getting more and more handsy with each other. Backup Coach notices. Everyone pretends they don't notice him noticing.  
  
Halfway through practice Backup Coach calls Jack over and starts spouting off about having pansies on his ice. Jack stands there and pulls out his best robot impression and nods, making little "Mhmm, mhmm," noises like the polite fucking Canadian he can pretend to be. Holster starts giving Ransom a handjob.  
  
Not like a _handjob_ -handjob, but like a fake-handjob. They're sitting on the bench and they're both still in full gear--- Holster's still got his _gloves_ on, for fuck's sake--- and it's not like Ransom would be able to feel anything through the layers and layers of clothing and pads and the fucking jock-strap anyway. But they're both getting _super_ into it and they're smiling but not laughing and groaning, groaning, even Holster's groaning like someone's blowing him, Jesus.  
  
Backup Coach just keeps talking, and Jack just stays stony-faced and nodding, until finally Jack turns to them and says, completely deadpan: "Birkholtz, you need to up your wrist action, or that sauce is never gonna go where you want it." And Backup Coach turns and sees what they're doing and he's _livid_ , his face literally turns _purple_ , and he tries to chew them out but everyone's laughing so hard and Holster and Ransom are so into each other that it doesn't really work. He ends up storming out and Holster and Ransom high-five while Shitty throws chunks of ice at his retreating back.  
  
A wholesale lack of any coaches whatsoever isn't enough to end practice, of course; not when they're captained by Unstoppable Jack Zimmermann. Jack runs them through drills for a while, and everyone pretends not to notice when Bitty randomly tears up a few times. In the end they just scrimmage and goof off on the ice and no one checks Bitty and everything's good.

* * *

  
  
They head back to the Haus and Holster's walking on air; he's _flying_. This all started out terrible but went to the best possible place. Because Bitty _knows_ now--- he may have been told before, but now he _knows_ \--- that they have his back, and that no one's going to treat him bad while the rest of the team draws breath. Not no one, not no how. He and Ransom Done a Good Thing, and he's got his arm around Ransom's shoulders and Ransom keeps punching him when he's really happy and it just. He's got Ransom under his arm, their friends around them, and they're walking home. He's. Holslter's life has never been so perfect.  
  
All of them troop up the front step, still laughing and hollering and Nursey and Dex keep reenacting the best parts. Nursey plays Jack and Dex plays Backup Coach, and for once all Dex's rage is tempered and twisted and used for comedic affect, and Holster thinks distantly that this is probably good for him.  
  
Inside the Haus the sun dims. March jumps up from where she was waiting on the couch with Lardo and runs up and gives Ransom a kiss on the cheek and something in Holster's head clicks, spins, does a 180 and suddenly he is sick with rage and doesn't know why.  
  
It's like none of it happened. Like all the good stuff they did gets wiped away, and he's back in the locker room and Backup Coach hurts one of Holster's friends and walks away and Ransom puts an arm around March and kisses her lips and walks away and Holster is spinning, spinning, spinning.  
  
"Holster?" Bitty asks, touching his arm. When Holster turns to him, his face is drawn with concern. "You okay?"  
  
"Yeah," Holster breathes out in a rush. "Yeah, I'm--- I'm just tired, that's all."  
  
"Okay," Bitty says, side-eyeing him, but he lets it drop. And it isn't fair, it isn't _fair_ , that Bitty should be as sweet and kind and compassionate as he is and still be treated the way Backup Coach treated him. He should--- he should get what he wants. He should be allowed to have good things. He should, Christ, Bitty should be _happy_ , and it's not fair that so often he's not.  
  
For the most part everyone else has scattered--- he can hear thumping and voices upstairs as the frogs climb out Bitty's window onto the Reading Room--- and as Bitty ducks into the kitchen Holster snags the back of Jack's shirt as he walks towards the stairs.  
  
"What the hell, man," Jack says, stumbling against him and glaring.  
  
"You should be going that way," Holster says, shoving Jack towards the kitchen.  
  
"But I'm not hungry," Jack says.  
  
Holster crosses his arms. "Your best friend just had a very emotional day, Jack. For fuck's sake don't leave him in the lurch."  
  
And maybe it's because it's true, maybe it's because all Jack needed was an excuse, maybe it's because that came out _way_ more harsh and bitter than Holster intended, but for whatever reason Jack just looks at him for a second and says, "Yeah, okay."

* * *

  
  
Holster's weird and out of sorts for the rest of the day. He doesn't--- He's so pissed, but he doesn't even know why. Ransom texts after dinner to say he and March are sexiling April tonight so Ransom won't be home till after class tomorrow, and Holster retreats to their attic to watch 30 Rock in peace.  
  
He stays up late; way later than he should. But fuck it. He'll skip class tomorrow. He's still restless and exhausted and, and _angry_ , angry at nothing. Jesus, he hopes he's not getting mono or something.  
  
Well, there's one surefire cure for sleeplessness. And Ransom  _is_ gone, so. . .  
  
But even that doesn't help much. He starts out slow--- he likes to take his time, when he can, ease into the buildup and make it _really_ good--- but this time it's less like easing into it and more like driving a car he forgot to turn on. Or something. Whatever; he's tired and trying to jerk off and it isn't _working_ so now he's super frustrated, too.  
  
He flips through his standard rotation of fantasies--- Liz Lemon, Lupita Nyong'o, Wayne Gretzky (JACK CAN NEVER KNOW), Jacob Jensen with Cougar--- and remains stubbornly at half-mast.  
  
"What the fuck," Holster says to his dick. "We are not old enough to be doing this. When this happens to other people? They say 'it's because I'm not twenty-five anymore!' You and I, buddy, are only _twenty-four_. Get with the program."  
  
His dick just looks at him.  
  
Holster sighs and drops his head back, looking at the ceiling. Or looking at where the ceiling would be, if it weren't blocked by the bottom of Ransom's bunk. And you know what? Fuck this. Absolutely fuck it. Holster's going to come or die trying.  
  
He starts moving his hand again, slowly (then rolls over and steals some of Ransom's hand lotion from his desk and yeah, Holster really needs to get more lube, because the difference is remarkable). Slowly, slowly--- then with more determination.  
  
New fantasy? Okay. New fantasy.  
  
It's got to be because his mind is still on what's been going on at practice lately. That's all it is. That's why he's so spun about, and that's why it suddenly smells like ice and sweat, which makes him think about doing this in his gear--- at the rink, yeah--- in full gear, and the jockstrap might even be tight enough to like prevent him from coming for a while--- really build up the tension--- and with all the gear and the gloves in the way it'd be less about a tight slick channel and more about the movement, more about the pressure and the heat of it and hot breath against his neck and the weight of another body pressing against his side and it's so strange he can't comprehend the fact that he's focusing not on his dick but on the movement of his _hand_ when he finally comes.

* * *

  
  
Life the next day carries on pretty much as usual. He doesn't see Ransom in person until afternoon since they both have class, but they text from the moment they wake up so Holster doesn't really notice his absence. Or, well. Doesn't _resent_ his absence, anyway. What kind of bro would he be if he resented his best bro for spending the night with his girlfriend? His girlfriend whom he likes a lot?  
  
A terrible bro, that's what kind. And Holster makes it a goal in life to be an excellent bro. So he doesn't mind that Ransom was gone all night. Not one bit.  
  
"I'm a good bro, right, Bits?" he says from the kitchen table. Ransom isn't home yet; said he was on his way an hour ago and still hasn't showed. There's no telling what he's doing. Holster doesn't want to think about it.  
  
Bitty laughs. "I can say with complete conviction that you are amongst the best bros that ever lived, Holtzy."  
  
But when he turns to look at Holster over his shoulder Bitty must see something in his face, because he stops rolling out the crust he's working on and dusts off his hands. Holster can count on one hand all the times Bitty's physically stopped working on a pie once he started and all of them were because of Jack (well, except for that one time Nursey sliced his hand open on a crushed beer can and bled all over the table. Dex didn't stop yelling for two days. But other than that, just Jack), but he stops now. Stops and walks over to Holster and gives him a hug and says, "You are the very best, Holster, and don't you dare _ever_ forget that."  
  
Bitty's standing and Holster's sitting and his face is buried in Bitty's chest. Holster wants to pull away. Normally he's all for physical affection, but this--- Because this isn't affection, he supposes; this is comfort. Comfort only for _him_ , because he's having some kind of existential crisis and doesn't know _why_ , and he hates how small it makes him feel.  
  
But--- well. It's Bitty. So Holster hugs him back, and Bitty runs his fingers through his hair, and when he finally pulls away Bitty pats his shoulder and says, "When I'm done with this, you tell me what you'd like for dessert and I'll make it."  
  
"Thanks, Bits," Holster says quietly. "Just--- thanks."  
  
Bitty nods, like he knows exactly what Holster's going through. Which must be great for him, because Holster still has no fucking clue.  
  
For some reason, though, when Ransom finally comes crashing in, all blinding smiles and promises of deets (mostly to make Bitty blush), for some reason whatever it is only gets worse.  
  
What the hell.

* * *

  
  
It gets worse and worse and worse and worse. Holster's going crazy. He's snappy and petty and fucking unbearable. Even Lardo starts giving him a wide berth. And Ransom--- whenever Ransom's not there Holster can't settle, he cannot be fucking _still_ unless he's got Ransom in his sights, but whenever Ransom _is_ around Holster spends all his time imagining punching him in the face and that just spins him 'round even more.  
  
The only time he gets any peace at all is when he's jerking off. The next time or two it's the same song and dance, where it takes forever and a day for him to even get fully hard and always ends with the memory of ice blinding his eyes, and eventually he stops pretending anything else is going to work and he starts off thinking about being on the ice in full gear and yeah, Little Holster wakes up a lot faster after that.  
  
And then one day he's in the shower, exhausted from a sleepless night spent feverishly thinking about _literally nothing_ , and he's frustrated and wants to jerk off but he only has a few minutes. So he skips ahead to what is apparently his newest bulletproof kink and imagines the rink, his gloves on his hands and his helmet pressing against his head, the icy air sharp against his face and his body hot, hot, hot beneath all his gear.  
  
But it's still--- he's really got to hurry, he needs to add something else to make it intense enough to just _come_ already, so--- he adds the first thing that comes to mind, which is the first thing that always comes to mind, no matter what he's doing---  
  
Ransom there with him on the ice, Ransom sitting next to him on the bench, Ransom leaning heavy against his side. Holster hard, hard, hard in his pants and _desperate_ , and Ransom so close, breathing against his neck, sharp gasps, Holster moving and moving and hardly being able to feel anything, but he knows it feels good, he can tell, because Ransom's gasping, now, writhing, holding on to Holster's arm so he doesn't stop, and Holster's jerking him off and Ransom gasps and hisses through his teeth and he's coming coming coming---  
  
Holster nearly smacks his face against the wall when his knees give out. Lardo's pounding on the door, telling him to hurry the fuck up she has class, and Holster's shaking, shaking, shaking. Because the idea of jerking Ransom off, giving him a handjob in front of everyone at Faber--- not a fake-handjob, but like a _handjob_ -handjob--- it's--- God. Fucking _hot_.  
  
Which. Shit. That's--- not very bro-like.  
  
"Holster!" Lardo yells. "Hurry the fuck up! What did you do, die in there?"  
  
"Yeah," Holster yells back. Because it's pretty much true. He just jerked off to the idea of jerking off his best friend, so yes. Holster is dead in the shower.

* * *

  
  
It's got to do with possession, Holster realizes later.  
  
He's lying in his bunk on his side, falling asleep to the lullaby of Ransom's rhythmic breathing in the bunk above him, and he realizes it's got to do with possession. Possessiveness. During the day he hates himself too much to think about this, but when he's falling asleep his self-loathing is so strong that adding to it doesn't make much of a difference. And it's got to do with possession.  
  
Because Ransom--- Ransom is _his_. His best bro, his best friend, his best half and best--- just everything. Everything the world has to offer, Ransom's the best of all of it.  
  
It's like Holster has him sometimes, possess him sometimes, but not always. Ransom will loudly proclaim to anyone within earshot that Holster is his best bro, too, that they're bro-soulmates, that they're best friends.  
  
And it's not enough anymore. Holster knows that. He doesn't know what _would_ be enough, and he doesn't know _why_ , but he does know it's driving him crazy.  
  
There's just something about Ransom, about his deep dark eyes and his laugh and his fucking _cheekbones_ , Christ, and that ass that could launch a thousand ships, and the way he moves on the ice, and the way everyone likes him so much---  
  
And it's got to do with possession. It's because Holster wants everyone to see, to _know_ that they may all like Ransom, but Ransom likes Holster best of all. More than that, it's because Holster wants to have that kind of _power_ over Ransom--- the power to make him forget about hockey, forget that anyone else in the world exists but them, the power to make him come in his gear, the power to make him come in front of _everyone_ \--- the power to _make him come_.  
  
Then Holster comes too, just think about it, comes with a shout, curling in half and reaching out to jack himself at the last second because it turns out coming untouched hurts, and then he pulls his pillow over his head and spends the rest of the night freaking out about whether or not he woke up Ransom, so he doesn't have to freak out wondering whether he fell asleep and had a wet dream, or if he was awake and daydreaming the whole time.

* * *

  
  
After that Holster's life is hell. He can't focus on class or homework. He can't concentrate on the ice. He can't concentrate when Jack's in his face or when Shitty's trying to talk him down or when he finally figures out what's going on with Nursey and Dex. He can't focus on pie or 30 Rock, and his life is over.  
  
All he can think about is _Ransom_. But not just Ransom, no no--- all Holster can think about is Faber, the stands packed, a game going on, and Ransom hopping off the ice and sitting next to him sweaty and flushed and Holster putting a hand in his lap and making him come.  
  
That's it, really. That's all he's got in his head these days. Just making Ransom come, on fucking infinite instant replay.  
  
Finally, a week in, he's pretty sure everyone's just leaving him alone till he gets his head on straight, but he isn't certain because he _can't fucking concentrate_. He finds himself on the porch, watching the world spin through the night--- tries imagining jerking Ransom off on these steps instead of on the bench at Faber and finds it lacking, somehow--- when something cold and wet suddenly touches his hand.  
  
He jerks like he's been shot, because for one wild moment he thinks it's _come_ , either his or someone else's, and jerking off in public is actually _not_ something he's real-life into, it turns out.  
  
But then he realizes it's just a cold can of beer, and Bitty's sitting next to him looking at him weirdly. After a moment all Bitty says is, "Sorry I startled you. Just. Thought you could use this."  
  
"Yeah," Holster says, taking the cold, damp can from him. "Definitely could. Thanks."  
  
Bitty nods and cracks his own, and they sit and drink in silence for a little while.  
  
"It's terrible, isn't it," says Bitty. Holster just looks at him. Bitty shrugs and says, "You know. Wanting what you can't have. Wanting something that no one else wants from _you_. That kind of thing."  
  
Goddamnit.  
  
"Well," Holster says, holding his can out to Bitty, "here's to oblivious idiots. Oblivious _hot_ idiots. May we never be cursed with the understanding of why we love them so."  
  
Bitty just looks at him for a long, long time, but then he closes his eyes and drinks.  
  
A moment later he claps Bitty on the shoulder, stands, and turns just fast enough to catch sight of Dex turning tail and fleeing into the night.  
  
What even is his _life_.

* * *

  
  
Holster tries not to think about the fact that he just basically said he's in love with Ransom, and that goes about as well as everything else he's trying to not deal with. If anything, that somehow makes it _worse_ , this knowledge that Ransom isn't just some hot place-holder for Holster's public sex kink, but is in fact the reason he started fantasizing about it in the first place.  
  
It's not even about a public sex kink, Holster realizes. It's only sort of about possession. It's about--- reciprocation, in a truly fucked up kind of way. Because if Holster told everyone he was in love with Ransom? They'd believe him. But if Holster tried to tell anyone Ransom was in love with _him_ , even if he was lying? Not so much with the believing. No one would buy it; not without hard proof.  
  
And, well. What better way to prove someone's into you than sexing them up where all the doubters can witness?  
  
His fantasies take a really sick turn after that, but it's like being tied to the steering wheel of a car at the top of a hill with no brake and no keys: he just can't stop. It's still about Ransom coming in front of everyone, of course. Now, though. . .  
  
Holster imagines it, sees it so viscerally he can taste it. Ransom coming in front of everyone and not being able to help it, but not _liking_ it, coming only because Holster's _making_ him and Ransom is powerless to hold back.  
  
Then it's Ransom coming in front of everyone because he can't help it and still doesn't _like_ it, and Holster wrapping him up in his arms so no one else can see; and then it's Ransom's face in his neck and his hands gripping Holster's biceps so hard it'll bruise and his breath stuttering and his voice cracking and his hips _squirming_ and the feel of him in Holster's arms and then he's coming---  
  
Holster looks down at the mess in his hands and all he can think. Is just.  
  
Goddamn it.

* * *

  
  
Holster doesn't realize what's going to happen until it's already going down. Because somewhere in all this he stopped thinking of Ransom as a person with agency and intelligence; he started thinking of him as something static--- worse, almost as some kind of, of _object_ or something, like he wasn't--- Holster started thinking of him as all kinds of things that just aren't true. And somewhere in all that Holster forgot that Ransom is A) incredibly smart, B) aware of the world around him, and C) aware of Holster in particular, even if it's not quite in the way Holster wants. Even though he still doesn't know what way he _does_ want. Because, y'know. That'd be too easy or something.  
  
Anyway, the point is, Holster is forcibly reminded of points A through C two days after midterms are finally over, when Ransom is back to being his normal self and then _confronts him_.  
  
They're in the attic, because where else would Ransom do something like this? So they're in the attic and Holster's over by the wall and Ransom's by the door. Not blocking it, exactly, but not exactly  _not_ blocking it either. Not blocking the door the way they're not shouting. Because Ransom keeps asking what's going on, what's up with him lately, is there anything he can do to help, and Holster can't tell him. _Can't_. Halfway because he doesn't _know_ , and halfway because the bits he does know he probably shouldn't say aloud.  
  
Never let it be said that Holster's not a self-destructive idiot sometimes, though. Because Ransom when says, "Bro, I just cannot read you lately," Holster laughs.  
  
He laughs and laughs and it sounds way bitter, but like with everything else lately he just can't help it and he can't stop and finally, clutching his stomach and leaning on the desk, still shaking, he looks at Ransom and says, "Bro be _fucking glad_ you cannot find the trashpit that is my mind right now."  
  
Ransom's getting angry, Holster can tell, and the worst part is that it just makes him _more gorgeous_. Fuck.  
  
"This all started with Backup Coach," Ransom starts, and Holster interrupts to say, "Actually I think it's all Coach Hall's fault really---" and too late Holster realizes that was as good as an admission.  
  
He clicks his mouth shut, but it's too late, Ransom's looking at him and _thinking_. He's thinking hard and Holster's panicking, and finally Ransom comes over to him, gets right up in his face, and takes Holster's chin in his hands and forces their eyes to meet. Holster knows, Holster _knows_ , that Ransom's going to say something to get a reaction out of him, so he tries really really really hard to keep his face still and before he can get too caught up Not Thinking about licking Ransom's fingers Ransom says, "I broke up with March."  
  
Two seconds later Ransom's eyes go wide and Holster knows that yep. Showed on his face anyway.  
  
" _Bro_ ," says Ransom, "bro, seriously?"  
  
"Fuck off," Holster snaps, shoving his arm away.  
  
Ransom backs up a step with the force of it but he doesn't back _away_ , he just stands there, all gorgeous and good-smelling and beautiful and _kind_ , kind in a way Holster thinks most people aren't capable of understanding. He's holding those long-fingered hands up like he's trying to get Holster off a ledge and he says, "No, bro, I will not fuck off, this is super important, just _talk to me_ \---"  
  
And it's the look in his eyes, really, that and the spinning sensation somewhere beneath his missing rib because it's all lost now, the jig's up and Ransom _knows_ , and Ransom's not an object he's something else entirely, and it's some combination of all these things clashing in his brain that has Holster reaching out and stopping, saying desperately, "No, no, look, you deserve someone _so_ much better than me---"  
  
"That is _such bullshit_ ," Ransom says before Holster can finish. "You are _completely amazing_ , Adam Birkholtz, _anyone_ would be so lucky to have you---"  
  
And it's the look in Ransom's eyes, really, the beauty and presence of him, that makes Holster remember what he himself _is_ , what he's been thinking and what he's wanted. Holster laughs again, an ugly thing, and says, "I know what you're thinking, and I know what you're gonna say, but bro. What I mean is you deserve someone who would treat you _well_ , not someone who'd treat you--- however I'd treat you."  
  
"And how would you treat me, bro? Huh?" Ransom's back in his face again, except he's--- he's furious, and if Holster can't even figure out what's going on in his _own_ head there's no way he'd be able to figure out what's going on in Ransom's. He's always been able to read Ransom like a book, so he knows Ransom's really, really angry, but Holster doesn't know _why_.  
  
Ransom gets right up in his face, like it's a scrum, like he's a fucking LAX bro or something, and keeps talking and talking and talking shit. "What'd you want to do to me, huh?" he says. "You wanna hit me? Tie me up? Make me hurt; make me _bleed_?"  
  
And whatever's spinning Holster 'round and 'round picks him up, drops him down, shoves him in the spine and he pushes forward and slams Ransom into the wall and Holster keeps going until they're pressed together and then he rumbles between his teeth into Ransom's ear, "No, I'd make you come in front of _everyone_ , whether you wanted to or not, so they'd all know you're _mine_."  
  
Things get very quiet and very loud and very, very still.  
  
Ransom stops talking and Holster stops breathing. Jesus, he's never been so scared--- but there's a roaring in his ears because. Because Holster may not be able to understand what's going on in anyone's heads, but he _can_ read Ransom's body language. Head-stuff? Not so much. Lust, though? Lust is easy to read.  
  
And Ransom--- it's just one or two little things. The hitch in his breath. The way his head jerks, just a little, barely turning his face towards Holster and putting his lips a fraction of an inch closer to Holster's jaw. It's the way Holster can feel the tension in Ransom's muscles snap over from not backing away to not pressing forward. And Holster suddenly gets it.  
  
Because love? Who cares about _love_? Love doesn't matter. It's not nearly as big a deal as sex. And Holster doesn't--- he loves Ransom; or thought he did, until he realized how much he'd been objectifying him. Love isn't--- like this. Love is something else; something much more honest and clear-sighted than a simple desire for someone's O-face and fantastic ass. If Holster can get off with Ransom just once, well--- that's more than the love he'll never understand.  
  
Holster--- can't not do something, but--- but what can he do? He can't ask, can't bring himself to say the words; can't just kiss him, because that makes entirely the wrong parts of him entirely too obvious. He breathes once, quick, in and out, and the scent of Ransom's sweat is like spice on his tongue, and almost without meaning to his hand snaps out and grasps Ransom's hip. And Ransom---  
  
"God," Ransom says, his hips rolling forward, one of his hands coming up to cup the back of Holster's neck, "God, _Holtzy_ \---"  
  
"Yeah," Holster breathes, pressing forward for real, now, pushing his body against Ransom's and trapping him against the wall with _intent_.  
  
" _Please_ ," Ransom hisses, those, fuck, those _lips_ against Holster's neck, and then Ransom _bites_.  
  
So that'll do Holster for enthusiastic consent.  
  
Holster pushes his chest against Ransom's chest, keeping him pinned against the wall, shoves his right leg between Ransom's thighs and uses his left arm around Ransom's waist to make Ransom _ride_ his thigh, all the way up. Ransom makes this noise, this stupid little "Eep!" like he wasn't expecting that, and he's hot all over and hard against Holster's dick, holding Holster's shoulder tight enough to bruise, and Holster's completely gone.  
  
"What--- Is this what you---" Ransom gasps into his ear, between licks and bites.  
  
"No," Holster says, shoving at Ransom like he's trying to push him right through the wall, pressing his thigh hard between Ransom's thighs and grinding their hips together. Ransom's gasping in his ear like he can't get enough breath, his stomach moving against Holster's with every hitch. "Not like this," Holster says.  
  
"Then what---" before the rest of it dissolves into a whine.  
  
"You really want to know?" Holster asks, biting the shell of Ransom's ear. Ransom nods against him, his eyes pressed to Holster's neck.  
  
For the first time since they started this thing, Holster sorts himself out. Takes a moment ( _only_ a moment, though, because Ransom is hard and hotter than _hell_ against him, and a moment is all Holster has to spare) to really get them how he wants. So he braces his feet on the floor, bends his knees, gets a really firm grip on Ransom's hips, hunches forward. Ransom's clinging to his shoulders, his own shoulders against the wall and his hips cradled against Holster's, off-balance enough that he'd fall flat on his ass if Holster wasn't holding him up. Ransom's head thunks against the wall and he stares at Holster, wide-eyed and gaping. Holster holds his eye and tightens his grip.  
  
"I'd do it in Faber," Holster says, and thrusts.  
  
They're not fucking--- Jesus, they're not even _naked_ \--- their dicks aren't even _touching_ \--- but Holster moves like he's fucking Ransom through the wall and Ransom reacts like that's what's happening. Holster watches the breath punch out of him in a guttural "Unf," his mouth falling further open, his eyebrows drawing together. His eyes stay open, though, and he keeps looking at Holster.  
  
Holster keeps looking back, keeps thrusting slow, and sharp, and _hard_. Ransom's shoulders slide against the wall with every roll of Holster's hips, his own hips stuttering and squirming against Holster's grip, his hands scrabbling at Holster's shoulders. And above all, Holster keeps talking.  
  
"I'd do it in Faber, during a game," Holster says, his voice full of gravel. "You'd score a goal, and then we'd go sit on the bench. The stands packed. The whole team there. And I'd reach over like that day we were fucking with that stupid backup coach. You remember that? Do you? Like that. I'd press against you. You'd be on the end of the bench, caught between me and the wall, and I wouldn't let you up. And I wouldn't even take my gloves off, but I'd put my hand on your dick and rub you till you got hard. And people would be staring. They'd look and they'd _see_ what I was doing to you, and they'd see how you were flushed and looking down and trying to squirm away, and they'd know you were embarrassed. They'd know you didn't want to be hard and flustered in front of them. And they'd know that I was _making you_. And it'd take a long time, because your jock would be so tight it'd almost stop you, but eventually someone else would score and when the buzzer went off and everyone cheered I'd press just _right_ and you'd come, so hard, right there in your gear in front of everyone."  
  
Ransom comes and digs his fingers into Holster's shoulders and makes this _noise_ , Jesus, this high-pitched, desperate _noise_ , and Holster comes so hard he sees stars.  
  
They just stand there in the aftermath, sticky with cooling sweat and slick come, and Holster fucked up. He fucked up big time.  
  
His head's already bent over Ransom's shoulder, so that's something, at least. Ransom can't see his face, doesn't see his expression when Holster pries his cramping fingers from Ransom's hips and slides away.  
  
"Oh, nuh-uh," Ransom pants.  
  
And then he puts both hands on Holster's face. And pulls. And--- kisses him.  
  
But not like. Not like a--- a Sex-Kiss. Not dirty and pornographic. No no, Ransom kisses him sweet and gentle, those ridiculously plush lips pressing softly against his own, those hands cupping his face and scratching through his hair, tipping his head for a better angle. It's. _Really_ nice.  
  
Ransom pulls back to look at him, but leaves his hands where they are, one thumb gently stroking the corner of Holster's mouth. Ransom's face is so sweet and open it's like a knife to the gut.  
  
"But---" Holster starts, and Ransom cuts him off by kissing him again. For kind of a long time. And now it's Holster clinging to Ransom's shoulders, because if he doesn't hold on to something these gentle kisses are going to knock him flat on his ass.  
  
Ransom pulls back again and Holster's panting, staring at him, and he can feel his own eyes blown wide and his mouth hanging open but he's too gobsmacked to stop.  
  
"Rans---" he starts again, because this is a bad idea. Just because Ransom can kiss him like that doesn't make this a good idea; doesn't make Holster good for him.  
  
But Ransom just kisses him again, and again, and again; every time he stops and Holster tries to tell him that this is a bad idea Ransom won't listen, just kisses him and kisses him and then kisses him a bit more.  
  
Finally Holster's gasping for an entirely different reason, and Ransom kisses his lips, the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his jaw, and tugs until Holster's face is buried in his neck. "Whatever you're thinking, it's not true," Ransom whispers. "Besides, it's not like I'm any different. I'm the same way, bro."  
  
"No you're not," Holster says. He means to say it like it's just a fact, but he ends up whining it like it's the most annoying thing in the world.  
  
Ransom laughs softly, and this time Holster can feel it in his own chest, and just. Wow.  
  
"Untrue, bro," Ransom says. "I am _way_ possessive and jealous when it comes to you."  
  
"Really?" Holster asks, pulling back far enough to look at him.  
  
"Yeah, man," Ransom says. His expression goes a little serious, and he watches his own fingertips as they trace along Holster's bottom lip. "The thought of you with anyone else, it--- I don't like it. I don't want anyone _near_ you if they're not me. I just never thought that you'd, you know. Want me back."  
  
And Ransom swallows and meets Holster's eyes, and now he looks nervous.  
  
Oh, Holster thinks. Oh.  
  
"Good thing we have each other then," Holster murmurs, and tips forward, and for the first time he kisses Ransom, and it's the most wonderful thing he's ever felt.

* * *

  
  
Eventually they change, because the come is drying in their underwear and it is _gross_. Soon enough, though, they're back to leaning against the desk and kissing, and Holster's not sure if the kisses are leading up to immediate sex or not, but oddly he doesn't really care. Mostly he just wants to keep kissing Ransom.  
  
All at once a terrible thought occurs to him. And now that they've got this out of the way, now that they've both told their secrets and found out that they're still on exactly the same page, it's like whatever psychic connection they had is reopened, and Holster doesn't even think before he pulls away and blurts out, "I don't _actually_ want to have sex in public."  
  
Ransom pulls a face. "Look, talking about it is the hottest thing that has ever, ever happened to me, but actually doing it for realsies would probably not work."  
  
"Oh thank God, same," Holster groans, leaning forward to for another kiss.  
  
Ransom ducks away, though, and Holster almost falls on his face. He's confused and maybe a little hurt, but Ransom's got this wicked smirk going and it _does_ things to Holster's stomach.  
  
"So public orgasms are out," Ransom says cheerfully, "and jealousy comes from uncertainty and insecurity, so that's out, too. But public possessiveness is still on the table, right? I mean, like, you're okay with everyone knowing about us?"  
  
Holster is assailed with visions of them sitting on each other's laps in the living room, or of leaving hickies high up on each other's jaws where they can't be covered, and his mouth goes dry. He swallows and swallows and manages to choke, " _Oh_ yeah. That'd be. That'd be really good."  
  
And he thinks at least one of these visions is about to happen, but instead--- Ransom turns around and runs away?  
  
Holster's hurt, because it is physically painful to have Ransom out of his sight, but mostly he's confused and intrigued and, all right, a little turned on. So naturally he gives chase.  
  
Ransom thunders downstairs and Holster follows, making it to the last step just in time to see Ransom turn off the TV (to much vocal complaint from the frogs) and jump up on Jack's chair. Jack, Shitty, Bits and Lardo pop out of the kitchen to see what the commotion is, and Ransom throws out his hands.  
  
"Hear ye, hear ye, fellow Wellies and fellow bros. That man," and he points to Holster where he's standing, wide-eyed and confused at the foot of the stairs, "is officially off the market. As am I. Henceforth we are an unbreakable, inseparable item. Any attempts to change this will be met with the full complement of derision and violence befitting such monumental stupidity. All complaints will be lit on fire and summarily ignored."  
  
For a moment there's complete silence. No one's even bitching about the TV anymore. And then--- of all things, Bitty takes a deep breath, turns to Jack, and says, "You remember I said I made a deal with myself? That when two of my friends finally worked out that they were in love with each other, I'd do something brave, too? Well. Would you like to go to dinner with me?"  
  
Before Jack can even answer Shitty bursts into tears and pulls Ransom off the chair and into his arms, and Chowder's crying, too, and Dex shouts on the top of his lungs until Nursey grabs him by the face and kisses him, and it's like a celly off ice but so much better and even _louder_ , and then Lardo's shoving him forward and he's got his face buried in Ransom's neck and everyone's pounding him on the back and he never knew. Never knew it could be like this.

* * *

  
  
Turns out that Holster _really_ doesn't like the idea of doing anything in public; can't even kiss his--- his _boyfriend_ in front of their best friends when he makes a speech like that.  
  
But later that night, when they're drifting off stuck together after Ransom fucks Holster through the mattress, Holster thinks of Ransom _literally_ shouting this from the rooftops. Thinks of his eyes when they light up with a brilliant idea. Thinks of the _surprise_ of him; of how even though no one knows Ransom better than Holster does he's still so dynamic, ever-shifting, burning bright and brilliant and astonishing.  
  
And thinking of all that, Holster really can't help but brush his lips against Ransom's cheek and whisper, "I really, really love you, bro. You know?"  
  
He feels Ransom's fucking insane lips form a smile against his neck. Ransom says, "I really, really do."  
  
Smiling, they sleep.

* * *

  
**Epilogue:**  
  
At the next practice Holster strides up to Coach Hall and sweeps him up in a hug that lifts him clean off the floor. Hall's squawking and Holster holds him tighter and says, " _I have never been so happy and it's all because of you!_ "  
  
Hall's trying to pry Holster off by the face when Coach Murray walks in and says, "What on earth did you boys do to that poor backup coach to get him sent to sensitivity training and then _fired_? And something about his mailbox being lit on fire?"  
  
It takes a long while for the laughing and the dancing to calm down after that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
